LUCA MORETTI
Raffaele came into the study at ten at night.
He sat down in front of the desk—mine now, after twelve years—and put the folder on the table.
"Padrone."
"Tell me."
He opened it.
"They left Palermo at four seventeen in the afternoon. Rental car under a front name, three men. They reached Pozzuoli at ten at night, and they're in a cheap hotel called the Posillipo, irony of the cazzo, waiting for Thursday's shipment in Bagnoli."
I set the glass of whiskey on the table.
"Confirmed."
"Confirmed, fratellone."
Forty years, Carlo.
Forty years. I was four at my grandfather Vito's funeral, in 1985. Carlo held me in his lap through the whole Mass, because my father was in the place of honor beside the casket and my mother was crying.
I remembered his jacket, remembered the smell of mothballs.
Fifteen, first girlfriend, a girl named Lorena, from the school in Sorrento. I wrote letters. My father found out, got angry. Carlo got the letters before he did, read them, laughed, and gave them back.
Didn't tell my father. Some things belong only to the boy, he said back then.
Nineteen, my mother's funeral. Forty-three, this past January, I said to him: "Go take care of this Bianca thing, Carlo. Finish it." He took care of it, took Bianca to a café in Mergellina.
And now…
Succession, Carlo? Was it succession? Did you want the house? Did you want the name? Was it money? Was it Bianca recruiting you in 2018, her coming from Salvatore, and you went along? Was it revenge for something I did and don't remember?
I wasn't going to ask.
"Fratellone. When?"
"Tomorrow. Call him here at eight at night. Say it's to go over the Bagnoli plan. He comes in, but he doesn't go out."
"Sì."
"I kill him alone."
"I want to be near, fratellone. Not to do it."
I looked at Raffaele.
"Va bene."
"Valentina…"
"I'll tell her first."
"Bravo, fratellone."
He left, and I put out the cigar and the study light, and went up the stairs slowly.
Valentina was asleep. I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her.
Tomorrow, bella mia.